2004-01-30

I dare not ask what strange combinations of words Igg is typing into Google these days. Today�s offering: if ever a Swede tells you they�ve been fucking the dog, it might behoove you to place an emergency call to the SPCA. (Sweden! So much more than modular furniture and meatballs!)

This is where I ruin my slickest segue EVER by building it up too much and making it inevitably anticlimactic:

Speaking of fucking dogs (See what I mean? Now it just seems laboured and obvious. I�m a no-talent hack who will never go anywhere in life. In other news, when did I become Woody Allen?), last night was the LAST NIGHT of hideous-rat-creature-sitting, thank the merciful lord. Because I am exhausted. Not, as you might think, because I�ve been capering about with squeaky toys, trying my utmost to elevate the spirits of the rat-creatures � they�re rats! They can amuse themselves with filth, as nature intended! � but because Monster�s building is haunted.

Or perhaps it has creaky old plumbing. I�m not going to split hairs. All I know is, I�ve been woken up several times a night by what sounds like a hammer bashing the life out of the radiator, not two feet from my head. Seriously � two AM in Monster�s bedroom sounds like this: CLANG! Bang bang bang! Crash THWANG! (And before you make some puerile insinuation, I sleep alone, ta very much.)

I�m totally convinced that the �old plumbing� thing is a cover-up. It�s quite clear that the landlord�s deformed offspring are living in the walls, sending messages to each other in code. Which is encouraging, because it means I can kill them, and thus stop the noise without having to pay a plumber. What those guys charge is completely insane.